


Without A Break

by Markovia



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Blood, F/M, One-Shot, Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 23:42:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10819203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Markovia/pseuds/Markovia
Summary: Five moments between the informant and his secretary.





	Without A Break

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, I've been wanted to write some Izaya/Namie for a while. I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Also - happy birthday Izaya!

"...I'm living here, in this world where things are continually damaged, where the heart is fickle, where time flows past without a break.” -  _Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore_

_Orihara Izaya’s apartment in Shinjuku, 5.30PM, after the 60-Kai Street incident._

  
  


She knows he had something to do with what happened earlier that day but she’s got nowhere else to go. The dullahan’s head rests heavy in her hands and she drops it on his desk with little care. The damn thing has been more trouble than it’s worth to her anymore. Izaya smirks at her and takes the head between his spindly fingers, cradling its cheeks in his curved palms.

 

“I hope you’re happy,” she states. She tries to stop the hatred seeping out of her tone but fails spectacularly and his smile widens until he shows his teeth.

 

“I’m very happy,” he replies, holding the head up so it is at his eye level. He stares at it appreciatively for a second, then peers out from behind it to look at Namie. “So, what do you want in exchange for this lovely specimen?”

 

His eyes are such an odd colour, she thinks. Such a deep brown, almost burgundy. They’re nasty eyes despite their pleasing colour, they’re narrowed and chaotic looking. She knew a phrase that said ‘eyes were the windows to the soul’. When she looked into Izaya Orihara’s eyes all she could see was thick, unending blackness. He might have been attractive were it not for those eyes telling of his lack of soul.

 

“Protection,” she answers.

 

Izaya raises his brows and sets the head back down on the table. When he leans against his knuckles and gives her a smug look, she wants to punch him square on the nose but holds herself back. “How about we cut a slightly different deal? I’ll give you protection, a job, accommodation here if that’s what you want.”

 

“A job?” she repeats, stonily.

 

“As my secretary!” he chuckles, standing from his chair. He waltzes around to the side of the desk closer to her and sits on the top of it, swinging his legs freely in the air. “I’m sure you can file things, type reports and make coffee, can’t you? You’re a clever woman. You _used_ to be head of a pharma-”

 

It’s then that Namie punches him and her fist collides with his cheekbone before he can move. The action surprises him and he has to prop himself up on the desk with his elbows for a moment as stars dance in front of his eyes. When his vision returns the woman is glaring down at him and her arms are caging him in on either side of his hips. She grips the edge of the desk tightly and her teeth grit loudly together as she observes his grinning face.

 

“So I’ll take that as a yes?” he asks, rubbing his reddening cheek with his palm. He leans forward slightly and Namie can feel his breath on her face but she doesn't move away to make a point - she will _not_ roll over just because he asks her to.

 

“I want the largest bedroom, my own bathroom and double whatever you were thinking of offering me as a wage,” she says, blankly. “And I want your word that you will not drag me into any more of your messes. I’m fine with filing them away in cabinets, I just don’t want to be part of them again.”

 

“Again?” he repeats, a sly smile curving his mouth on one side. He leans forward again and nudges her nose with his but unexpectedly she doesn’t move. Her eyes narrow dangerously and for a moment she reminds him of Shizu-chan when he is on the verge of exploding. But Namie doesn’t explode, she remains as cool and unpleasant as she ever has been.

 

“I know you were involved in what happened at 60-Kai Street, with the Dollars. I can’t tell you how or why, but I know you were,” she says. Izaya opens his mouth to try and argue but she pushes him further back along the desk until he is half lying over his papers. “Don’t even bother protesting, scumbag. I know what’s happened can’t be rectified so I’ll accept your shitty little proposal. Just know I intend to make your day-to-day life very unpleasant in certain ways.”

 

Izaya laughs breathily and reaches forward so that he can curl finger around a lock of her hair. He winds the strands around his finger and tugs on it gently. She still doesn’t flinch and he can’t help but think to himself that she is impressive. “I think we’re going to have a lot of fun together, Namie.”

  
  


_Orihara Izaya’s apartment in Shinjuku, 8.30PM, sometime in Winter_

  
  


He has spent the last hour insisting she make hot pot. Hot pot. Hot pot. Hot pot. The hundredth repetition causes her to growl and she stands up from the sofa so she can storm into the kitchen.

 

“Fine!” she yells, throwing her hands up into the air. “I’ll make your fucking hot pot. But will you get some damn friends so I don’t have to keep doing this whenever you feel sorry for yourself.”

 

“Thank you, darling,” Izaya laughs highly.

 

“Don’t call me that,” she calls back.

 

He stretches out across the sofa cushions where she had been sitting and starts to aimlessly flick through the television channels with the remote in his hand. Her concession puts him in a good mood, where before he had been miserable. As a being that craved love and attention more than the air he breathed, it was hard for him to see photos of Shinra - _his only friend_ \- having a dinner party without him. Izaya tries not to think too much on the matter and lets himself be comforted by the delicious smells wafting from the kitchen. Namie is an excellent cook, he likes having her around 24/7 to make his meals, even if sometimes he does worry that they’re laced with rat poison.

 

He likes having Namie around despite that.

 

That thought sticks in his mind as he continues to push the buttons on the remote control. But why, he muses. She’s unpleasant, cold and more often than not he can see her imagining his untimely death behind her bored gaze. But still, she’s hard-working and ruthless in both nature and intelligence. Izaya drops the remote to the floor and stands up so that he can walk into the kitchen. Quietly, he leans against the doorframe and watches his secretary as she deftly chops the vegetables for their dinner. She handles the knife with a delicate precision only a surgeon can. Izaya guesses she’s probably better with a blade than even he is. Namie hasn’t noticed him yet, so he takes the opportunity to let his eyes wander her figure, something he has never done before.

 

She has a great body, he’ll give her that. Her taste in clothes leaves much to be desired but he’s never really cared all that much about fashion given that he himself only has a closet full of multiple copies of the same outfit. It’s not just the way she looks so much as the way she moves. Namie’s actions careful, she never trips or misses what she’s aiming for. Izaya tilts his head to the side. She’s almost graceful. His gaze moves up to the side of her face that he can see and realises he’s never properly _looked_ at her since that first day in his office when she crushed him against his own desk. He has to admit, that memory still turns him on in an odd way. That day he thought he had the upper hand, she was the one coming to _him_ for help after all. But boy, was he wrong. When she caged her arms around him and _stared, ugh_ \- Izaya smiles and pushes himself away from the doorframe. He’d jerked off that night picturing her riding him on that desk, papers spilling around them onto the floor.

 

It’s that image in his head that spurs him to approach her from behind and press his hands against the counter on either side of her hips. He leans in and nuzzles his nose into her hair - he’s always liked her hair. Namie stiffens when she feels his body flush against her back and he wonders if she can feel that he’s growing hard.

 

“Does hot pot turn you on?” she asks, snidely. “Pervert.”

 

He laughs and presses his lips against her shoulder, against that vile green jumper she always wears that he’s grown somewhat fond of. He purrs into her ear, happily noting the way her spine arches ever so slightly at the touch of his breath on her neck. “Sukiyaki really _does it_ for me.”

 

The woman doesn’t react so he moves one of his hands and places it on her waist. It’s then that Namie stabs the knife in her hand down into the chopping board, a clear warning to the man. Izaya chuckles and kisses her ear fleetingly before moving away.

 

“Thanks for dinner Namie,” he hums, as he begins to search for a bottle of wine for the two of them to share. “All pretenses aside for one moment, I do actually appreciate it.”

 

Namie picks up the knife and starts to chop vegetables again. She listens quietly as Izaya’s footsteps head out of the kitchen and toward the dining table in the main room. When she hears him start to set the table she rests the knife back on the chopping board and leans heavily against the counter, hers eyes bulging in their sockets. What on Earth was that about, she thinks, clenching the worktop between her fingers. Izaya was always flirtatious but he’d never been that forward before or that honest about his gratitude. She raises a hand to touch her ear and shakes her head. There’s no way she can feel anything but contempt for Izaya, she reminds herself, the man is piece of shit.

 

She lowers her hand and wraps it around her waist in the same place he held her, just for a moment. When she hears him coming back into the kitchen, humming animatedly to himself, she picks the knife back up and rearranges her expression back into its usual blankness.

  
  


_Okubo Private Hospital, Shinjuku. Orihara Izaya’s room._

  
  


When he wakes up, the first thing he feels is the stab wound in his side. It’s throbbing unpleasantly and pain is radiating across the entire span of his torso. The feeling is so intense that when he tries shift, a sharp, searing sensation tears through his muscles and he lets out a gasp.

 

“You shouldn’t move,” comes a familiar voice.

 

Izaya opens his eyes and finds Namie sitting close by his bedside. She looks exhausted, there are bags under her eyes that are not usually present and her lovely hair is mussed and slightly greasy. Despite this, he’s never been happier to see another human being - not just because it means his phone call reached her and she saved him from Jodogiri, but simply because it is her. He hates people who pander too much to him when he’s injured and he’s certain Namie will offer little more than her usual coldness.

 

“You shouldn’t move, you’ll just hurt yourself more,” she repeats, picking up the glass of water situated on his bedside table.  She stands and raises the glass up, gesturing to him with it. “Open up.”

 

The man complies and he smiles, bemused by her actions. She leans across him carefully and places the rim of the glass against his lips before tilting it gently upward. Izaya takes a few much-needed sips of water before nodding slightly, motioning for her to take it away.

 

“Can you get me a straw?” he asks, voice barely more than a croak. The underlying playfulness is still there and she finds herself slightly relieved about that fact. “Then you don't have to feed me like a mother bird.”

 

She folds her arms over her chest and raises a brow. “Will you just shut up and accept help for once?”

 

Izaya grins lazily and if he could move better he’d tilt his head but it’s still rather painful so he settles for looking up at her through his lashes. “Is Namie concerned for my well-being all of a sudden?”

 

She opens her mouth to retort but he gets there before her. There’s an odd expression on his face, somewhere between his usual sneer and a highly unfamiliar shade of sadness. It puzzles her for a moment until he says - “Or are you just concerned about who will sign your next paycheck?”

 

The woman shuts her mouth and keeps the retort shut behind her lips. Izaya hit the nail on the head with her next choice of words. He smiles at her wryly and there’s a hint of bitterness in his eyes. These glimmers of honesty are only getting more frequent and Namie isn't sure if it’s because he’s opening up or if she’s just seeing him in more detail these days. As she stares at his face, which is paler and more hollow than usual, her mind goes blank and she can only think of one thing.

 

Instead of answering him, she leans forward and kisses his forehead. The gesture is simple but telling. It’s sterile enough to be _caring_ rather than _loving._ The placement is more maternal than romantic. But it's still a kiss and it surprises them both. When she sits back down Izaya is staring at her with wide eyes and his mouth set in a hard line. Though his gaze is fixed on her Namie doesn't think he sees her, he’s simply staring forward as his mind whirs with thought. She doesn't ask what he’s thinking, she’s not sure she wants to know.

  
  


_Orihara Izaya’s apartment in Shinjuku, 8.45PM_

  
  


“And by the end of tomorrow Shizu-chan will be dead,” Izaya finishes, wiping the side of his mouth with the back of his palm. He’s a messy eater and noodles are the worst for it - he’s got sauce all over his chin but she doesn't mention it.

 

A lot has happened between them since he was stabbed by Yodogiri but the most recent development was Izaya’s sudden decision to finally rid himself of Heiwajima. Namie doesn’t understand his obsessional hatred for the blond man, Shizuo didn't seem like a bad person despite his absurd strength. Izaya was forever prodding the ‘monster’, trying to goad him, trying to make him explode. Actually, she doesn’t understand Izaya’s actions a lot of the time. He seemed to cause chaos for his own amusement rather than gain.

 

What he’s planning is dangerous, she’s been telling him to abandon this foolish endeavour for weeks but Izaya is an immovable object when he wants to be. Namie feels a pang of _something_ in her chest when she looks at him from across the table and it twists her guts until she feels like she’s going to be sick.

 

“You're making a mistake,” she says, placing her empty wine glass down on the coaster beside her plate. “Heiwajima isn't someone you should underestimate.”

 

“Have some faith in me, jeez,” he retorts, pushing the wine bottle toward her so she can refill her glass. “It's all planned out.”

 

“And?” she asks. She dislikes the way her voice is coming out slightly desperate in tone but she presses on. “And what if it goes wrong. It's gone wrong before - remember when you got stabbed?”

 

“If Shizu-chan kills me then he’ll show the world what a monster he is,” Izaya replies, dark eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “Either way, I win.”

 

Namie grits her teeth together and clasps her trembling hands together under the table where he cannot see them. She knows exactly why this is getting to her but she doesn't allow herself to say it out loud. From the way Izaya is looking at her, with a gaze softer than she’s ever seen it and a smile that is not a damn smirk for once, she knows that he can see straight through her.

 

“This is a suicide mission,” she grinds out, angrily.

 

“Not if I can help it.”

 

The woman jolts upright and her chair clatters to the floor behind her. She doesn't bother picking it up as she rounds the table so she can stand beside him. Izaya looks up at her curiously and laces his hands beneath his chin. Namie swallows thickly and speaks to him without thinking for fear that she will stay silent if she lingers on the words for too long.

 

“I don't want you to die,” she says. Her voice doesn't crack, it's not overtly upset, in fact it's as calm and cool as it always it.

 

His mouth spreads out wide into a grin that shows all his teeth. “I don't want to die either.”

 

“Then why the fuck are you doing this? Why the fuck do you do all this shit?”

 

Izaya’s face drops into a scowl at her snarled question. “Because I love humans.”

 

He pauses for a second and she notices that his eyes widen slightly at he looks at her.

 

“You're pathetic,” she hisses in reply.

 

“At least I don't wank over my brother.”

 

“At least I don't wank over Shizuo.”

 

“Hah - well, at least I'm not alone and hated and-” he trails off when he realises that he’s lying to himself and he _is_ in fact talking about the both of them. But then he realises he’s not alone, not entirely. Namie’s here, she’s been here for a long time. She doesn't hate him, not properly at least. The way her mouth twists unhappily tells him that she’s thinking the same thing about him. _I want you_ . No, _I need you._ And suddenly he feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest. That or he’s going to throw up.

 

The pair glare at one another in silence then Izaya stands and shoves her backwards into the wall, roughly, as if to harm her. He probably does, not that she cares by this point. Her hands clasp his shirt and she drags him to her, crashing her lips against his in a manner that could be deemed painful. He doesn't seem to care either.

The kiss sets the tone for the evening and the descent begins. He strips her of her clothes, layer by slow, slow layer, then drags his nails across her skin until she cries out. Izaya moves so that he is pinning her to the wall with the length of his body and one of his legs rests between hers. Namie's fingers begin to tear at his shirt, but he presses her hands back against the wall. He smirks as she struggles but doesn't relinquish his hold until she stills.

“Keep them there,” he murmurs.

His kiss moves down over the tender skin of her throat, her collarbone, her chest. One hand encompasses a breast, his teeth attend to the other, tearing at the soft underside before moving to latch onto her erect nipple. The other hand entwines in her hair, pulls on the soft strands hard, causing her to let out a pained grunt.

"If you want me to come back alive," he hisses, hand leaving her breast and crawling down over her stomach. "Then you scream my name when you come. I’m sure that’ll be more than enough incentive for me to keep my heart beating."

The words are dirty, but she loves the way he speaks them. His hand slides over her cunt, and his eyes narrow with satisfaction at the feeling. They're moving too fast but neither of them cares - this could be the only chance they get to be honest with one another.

"Namie," he purrs, pressing two fingers inside of her roughly. His strokes are hard, they shake her entire body, but she finds herself enjoying it more than any sexual encounter she’s ever had in the past. "Do I make you wet?"

"No-"

He swipes his thumb up over her clit and lowers his head so his lips are moving against her cheek. She feels him smirk against her skin as she whimpers loudly.

"Don't lie to me, darling," he chides, chuckling darkly. He kisses her sweat-ridden face as she begins to pant harder.

"Don't call me that," she manages to croak, as he curls his fingers inside of her.

It begins to get overwhelming. The heat, the sensations he is causing inside of her, the furious passion behind his eyes, his disgusting, horrible sentiments, the scratch of his clothes against her naked skin, the loss of power -

"Then what should I call you?" he replies, twisting his hand so she lets out another cry.

"Oh god- I'm going t-" she mumbles, legs shaking underneath her.

He shoves his chest into hers, traps her between his hard body and the wall, to keep her from falling over.

"Don't you dare come, Namie," he chuckles. His eyes light up with amusement and the lids fall heavy with lust. "Not unless you beg me for it."

"Come on-"

"Beg!" he barks, pressing down hard against her sensitive clitoris. His grin is wide and he’s panting hard as he grinds his erection into the thigh she has pressed between his legs - it's obvious he’s enjoying himself too. She lets out a shriek and her head falls against his shoulder. She hates him, she hates him so much but-

"Please, fuck, please let me come," she breathes, groaning again when he adds another finger inside of her, stretching her.

"Please let me come…what?" he repeats, voice closer and dark against her ear.

"Please, please-"

"Please what?"

Namie moans again as he slows down briefly, pained as the loss of the oncoming release. "I don't kn-"

"You know. I told you - if you want me to come back alive then say my name. Say it over and over and let it sink in that I’m the one doing this to you."

"Ah, f-fuck!" she gasps, keening as his fingers twisted painfully. Her mind is racing, uncertain, so unsure of this man, this creature standing over her. If she complies, spits his name out, does as he asks, that’s as good as telling him that she loves him and _love_ is not something she’s ever going to admit to Izaya, even if he ends up splattered across the concrete tomorrow. Pride will be your downfall, she thinks to herself.

"Say it, Namie," he whispers, smirk dropping from his face, one hand caressing her cheek softly.

"No."

"Say it!" he says, almost desperately.

"N-no!"

His fingers speed up again and his thumb rapidly strokes her clit until she finally, finally, reaches -

"Namie," he says, unusually angrily, eyes narrowing as she lets out a guttural, animalistic cry as she comes hard against his hand. She wonders if her refusal disappoints him, if he thinks that she doesn’t care if Shizuo kills him tomorrow but the thought is lost in the haze of pleasure.

The madness ends and she still rests her head against his shoulder, unwilling to open her eyes, unwilling to acknowledge what has happened between them and what could continue. As she stands there with his arms holding her upright, she realises that she does not want this man to die. She doesn’t want him to leave her. Finally she pulls back and with a fury that comes from realising that, _yes Orihara Izaya does mean something to her_ , she spits in his face. The shackles around her mind loosen and her usually expressionless face contorts with emotion.

"I hate you," she growls, finding her voice, finding something to say to him. Izaya's smirk falters and he slowly removes his hand from inside of her. "Why the fuck did it have to be you?"

She leans forward and bites Izaya's pale throat, hands quickly shedding his shirt and leaving it to flutter to the ground. The man lets out a low moan as her fingers trail down to his belt, nails nicking his flawless skin whenever and wherever they can. He looks shocked by her honest remark, dark eyes wide, her saliva still dripping down his cheek. Roughly, she pushes him backwards, tripping him with one foot and topples them both to the ground. Now straddling his chest, her hands run down either side of his neck, and she finds herself revelling in the breathy gasps he emits, the way his body shakes underneath her.

"It had to be you, didn't it," she hisses, sitting up, hands still splayed against his chest.

When they fuck it's hard and painful but it couldn’t be any other way.

She comes more than three times but refrains from screaming his name. She insists that she ride him, refusing to let him take back the control, but after the third orgasm hits, she goes limp and he quickly flips them. He touches her clit roughly and he fucks her with brutal, rough strokes that make her dig her nails into his back. He adores her hair so he plays with it, pulls it, smooths it between his fingers. Izaya comes with her name on his lips, he repeats it over and over like a prayer as he thrusts jerkily into her. He attempts to say something further but she stops him, she bites his neck, she leaves marks and whatever sentiment he was going to express is stifled and for that, she is glad. When it's over, they collapse in a heap on the floor, neither willing, or able to move. Izaya wants to tell her something but he knows he cannot, that she won't let him, and if he is honest he is somewhat relieved.

 

_Private hospital, Orihara Izaya’s room, 6PM_

  
  


It’s been a week since the fight and Izaya hasn't woken up yet. He’s alive, just about, but he doesn't look good. His spine was damaged when Heiwajima threw him into a building, his arms are broken in four places and there’s a deep stab wound in his side, though that one was courtesy of that Russian woman. It took a team of three doctors and herself to stabilise him, for a while she thought he really would die just to spite her for not saying his name. Namie sits by his bedside each night, she’s still not really sure why. She watches the news, reads books, passes the time. Sometimes she glances at Izaya only to find herself disgusted and then she tears her eyes away and forces herself to watch the television instead.

 

Loving someone you hate is a horrible thing to have to admit but Namie comes to terms with it in those seven quiet days beside him. Part of her hopes he doesn’t wake so she won’t have to confront her feelings outside of her own head, but it’s a very small part. No, she wants him to wake up and see her. She wishes she had said his name, maybe if she had he would have come back to her alive and unharmed. The woman quickly brushes those thoughts away - it was pointless to dwell and fret over past actions, especially when they were useless. Izaya was always going to have ended up like this, in this bed, regardless of what Namie said to him. But when the seventh day hits and he’s still lying there with his sharp face slack and unmoving, she finds herself staring at him for too long and unbearable pain starts to bubble in her chest.

 

Namie can’t remember the last time she cried, it must have been when she was still a child. She clenches the thin sheet covering him tightly between her fists and leans down to press her face in the space on the mattress beside his right hand. Even if he is out cold she doesn’t want him to see her cry. Tears roll warmly down her cheeks and stain the white sheet beneath her face. Her shoulders shake aggressively and she squeezes her mouth shut so she doesn’t make any obvious sounds. Crying, especially crying for Izaya, makes her angry and she wants to stop the tears from falling but for some reason they won’t stop.

 

“You fucking idiot,” she sobs into the sheet, her voice muffled by the material. “I hate you, I hate you so much-”

 

Something nudges against her head so she stops speaking and looks up. Izaya’s eyes are cracked open slightly and his mouth hangs open as if he wants to speak. Namie freezes, staring at him with reddened eyes for a moment before leaning across his broken body so that she can wrap her arms around his shoulders. The woman holds him as tightly as she can without hurting him and presses her face into the juncture of his neck so he doesn’t have to look at her as she starts to sob again.

 

“You idiot, Izaya,” she breathes. She says his name over and over until her voice cracks with emotion and devolves into unintelligible gasps.

 

The man’s mouth curves into a pained smile. He manages to raise one finger and wraps a lock of her hair around it, humming gently at the silken feeling he’d grown so fond of. Namie’s face is hidden from view, so he takes the opportunity to close his eyes and let a few tears fall onto his cheeks. Even though he can’t move, even though his body feels like it’s on fire, even though his mind is still reeling from the memories of Shizuo glaring up at him from the flames - he’s glad to be alive. He hears Namie choke his name out again and he smiles through the multitude of emotions flooding his thoughts. He’s so very happy to be alive.

 


End file.
